For various reasons, mainly to do with an impractical loft hole, a lot of my ‘stuff’ had been in storage for a year.

I’d bought a new hole and the Cheerful Builder had fitted it for me. It was a really good hole, with an integral foldy ladder and a patent pole device to open and shut the cover.

Thus it was that I found myself hurtling down the cramped roads to Norwich in a rented Luton van.

I love driving vans. I could quite happily be a delivery driver, zipping from town to town in my big delivery van. (Obviously I would employ someone else to do the heavy carrying bits, or only deliver very light stuff, although I’d need to investigate whether the latter is a sustainable business plan).

You sit really high up and have a great view of the road, apart from behind you, which, let’s face it, is somebody else’s problem anyway. Honestly, you feel like a king. I can see why lorry drivers are constantly getting shagged by randy female hitchhikers.

Driving a van really nails the great 4×4 weasel lie. You know – posh mum explaining that she needs a huge great fuck-off BMW shed-on-wheels for the school run because quote it makes me and my family feel really safe unquote. Well, love, if you really want to feel safe, trade it in for a ten year old bashed up Transit Luton with the words ‘Self Drive’ in big letters all over it, and people certainly get out of your way pronto then.

I pondered this as I hurtled down the single track road at 45 mph. Vans are really safe, as 45mph actually feels like Mach 3 when you’re in the cab, although to be fair the brakes seem to have been nicked off my old Raleigh Grifter.

And what’s more, when I got there I got to play on the taillift.